


The Wedding of Kíli and Tauriel

by Argenteus_Draco



Series: The Stories We Tell [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Durin Family, Everybody lives!, F/M, Gen, One Shot Collection, life in erebor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 13:16:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3530771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argenteus_Draco/pseuds/Argenteus_Draco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Kíli had thought that the hardest part of arranging to marry Tauriel would be getting Thorin and Thanduil to both agree to allow it, but those negotiations are nothing compared to the politics of reconciling Elvish and Dwarvish traditions into one ceremony." Part of a collection of short stories set after the Battle of Five Armies, exploring the fathers, brothers, leaders and kings that the Sons of Durin could have been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preparation

**Author's Note:**

> By request (as if I needed an excuse), the wedding of Kíli and Tauriel. I had a lot of fun (and took a lot of liberties) in designing the Elvish and Dwarvish wedding traditions. I wanted it to feel familiar, but also as though it could fit into Middle Earth, and I've drawn inspiration from my own heritage as well as from the designs of the Lord of the Rings films.
> 
> An additional note on language: I will not claim to be fluent in either Sindarin or Neo-Khuzdul, though once again, I had a lot of fun researching it. I've used words in those languages only where I felt they were accurate and necessary, and otherwise wrote in English. The translations are:
> 
> Amrâlimê, Khuzdul, my love.
> 
> A'maelamin, Sindarin, my beloved.
> 
> (If any of you reading this are fluent, or more fluent than I am, and at any point notice a mistake in my grammar, spelling, or syntax, please do not hesitate to let me know.)

Kíli had thought that the hardest part of arranging to marry Tauriel would be getting Thorin and Thanduil to both agree to allow it, but those negotiations are nothing compared to the politics of reconciling Elvish and Dwarvish traditions into one ceremony.

“We shall have a few rehearsals,” Balin tells him, “to go over the vows and the order of the service and such.” Suddenly Kíli regrets asking him to officiate. Balin is a stickler for tradition, and his sense of honor and duty to Thorin and Dís — not to mention Erebor at large — will not allow him to make this occasion anything less than perfect.

“I don't see why we need to rehearse it.” Kíli drags a finger through the fine dust settled on the table, practicing the Tengwar characters of Tauriel's name. In the next few days, he will engrave them onto a delicate ring for her, since this is what Elves exchange to symbolize their unspoken vows, and although he is not a jeweler himself, he does not trust this last detail to any other Dwarf. “They're just vows.”

“Ah, and I suppose you've become a Khuzdul scholar since we've settled in.” Balin gives Kíli a stern stare over the contract he is finalizing; Thranduil has sent it back four times already, over disagreements in wording. “This would be an awfully embarrassing occasion to forget your syntax, lad, and you still mostly speak it in the dialect of the Blue Mountains.”

Appropriately chastised, Kíli stops drawing and sighs. “I will practice,” he says. “And I'll help Tauriel with the pronunciations.”

“That is absolutely out of the question,” Thorin growls, speaking up for the first time since they'd sat down to start discussing arrangements. “Traditions be damned, Balin, we'll be doing that part in Westron anyway.”

“I can learn it!” Kíli insists. “And so can she!”

“This isn’t about either of you, it’s about the hundred or so other of her kin who will be in attendance.” Thorin runs a hand through his silver-streaked hair distractedly, and his next words are somewhat softer. “There are a lot of laws that I am willing to bend for you lad, even a few I would break, but that is not one of them.”

Kíli chews his lip for a moment, wondering if he should tell his uncle that Tauriel is already starting to learn some Khuzdul simply by nature of hearing it spoken. She surprises him nearly every day with a new word or phrase, and though her accent is, at times, atrocious, he is fairly certain that she is becoming fluent in the Dwarves’ secret language faster than he is.

“Then the last thing we need to discuss,” Balin says, bringing Kíli sharply out of his thoughts and back to the present company, “is your bridal gift. Or are you considering those rings to fulfill that part?”

“No,” Kíli answers, “a single ring wouldn't be wealth enough, even Fíli would laugh at me.”

“It is a fine thing you’ve designed for her, lad.” Balin is obviously trying to make him feel better about not already having this completed. Most Dwarves who plan to marry complete their gift long before they even have a Dwarrowdam in mind, and with only two weeks to go before the ceremonies, Kíli is running out of time to make any of the traditional crafts. “And as long as you have a hand in it’s making, technically it can qualify.”

Kíli hesitates for a moment, then blurts out, “I did have one idea, but I have no idea how I would go about executing it.”

“Alright, let’s hear it then.” Kíli glances between his uncle and Balin and back, then outlines his plan. Thorin nods approvingly.

“It’s a grand scheme, to be sure. But if you can make it work, I shall of course give you what you need.”

“You should talk to Bofur,” Balin adds.

Kíli turns to him with raised eyebrows. “Bofur?” he asks. “Why?”

“Because he is a toy maker, and it’s made him quite clever with mirrors.”

#

There are nights when Kíli wakes in a tangled pile of sweat-soaked bedding, from nightmares where he is back on Ravenhill, but his arrow does not strike the pale orc in time to save his brother’s life; or else he in the wrong place entirely, in a tunnel far below while Fíli is dangled off the edge above him. He closes his eyes, the hiss of Black Speech echoing inside his head, and when he opens them again it is to the sight of his brother’s lifeless body, blue eyes cold and staring, almost accusing, calling out to Kíli against his better sense to be avenged. These are the nights he goes to Tauriel. She understands him better than the others. It’s unusual for Dwarves to have dreams like these, especially recurring ones. When he confides to Fíli about them, his brother simply laughs (which does make him feel better, in it’s own way) and tells him that he is spending too much time among the Elves, that their magic is affecting him.

Tauriel’s small room is sparser than most in Erebor. There is a desk with a few books in one corner, and windows leading to shafts cut into the walls high above, designed to let in what little natural light can be found inside the mountain. Her weapons are hung neatly on the far wall, and a single silk tapestry covers the bed. She is frequently awake, regardless of the late hour, but tonight she is stretched languidly on the mattress, looking for all the world like she is asleep, except that her green eyes are open and alert. She pushes herself up on one arm to better look at him.

“I thought you were on guard tonight,” she says, as he makes his way across the room to her. Her eyes roam his body, taking in his loose tunic and bare feet, and she smiles, shifting on the bed to make room for him. “Obviously I was mistaken. Were you having dreams again?”

“No,” he answers, climbing up beside her. “I mean, yes, I did, but that’s not the trouble.” He tries to explain about his meeting with Balin and Thorin, and the newest complications, without giving too much away. She frowns at the mention of a bridal gift.

“You do not have to buy my love with gems,” she tells him, pushing a stray lock of hair out of his face. “You have always had it.”

“I know that. But I’m expected to. And I do want to,” he adds hastily, not wanting her to misinterpret his first excuse. He sighs and settles his head into the crook of her arm. “It’s just… the more I find out we have to do, the more tempted I am to run off with you on the next caravan that comes to Erebor, and get married far away from here.”

She laughs lightly and settles back against the mattress herself. “Then it is a good thing no caravans are due until after winter,” she tells him. “Though I won’t say I’m not tempted by the idea.”

“We could have a nice simple wedding somewhere like the Shire,” he murmurs sleepily. “I bet Hobbits know how to throw a good party for something like that. Bilbo certainly did.”

#

The day before the wedding is to take place, Tauriel disappears, going into seclusion with the women of her people. This is not a surprise to Kíli, but her absence does make him somewhat anxious. There was no one, though, who had expected his mother to go with her.

“I don’t get it,” Kíli mutters, pacing across the sitting room. “She doesn’t even like Tauriel.”

“I don’t think that has anything to do with it.” Thorin is just as perplexed as the rest of them, but at least somewhat calmer about it, having spoken to his sister before her departure. “Her exact words were, ‘I won’t leave any future daughter of mine alone with a bunch of Elves.’”

“But Tauriel _is_ an Elf.”

“That’s what I said.” Thorin reaches out and grabs Kíli’s arm, forcing him to stop walking and meet his uncle’s gaze. “Don’t try to make sense of it, lad. Women will always speak a different language than the rest of us. Get your mind off it. Go finish your gift.”

#

They have done everything they can to bring Kíli’s plan to fruition, he has checked and triple checked every measurement, every angle… but this is beyond any of their control. Kíli glances at the sky, full of roiling clouds, and lets loose a colorful string of Khuzdul swears.

“It’s a good thing you settled on having the ceremony underground,” Bofur, ever the optimist, says, following Kíli’s gaze. “Imagine having an Elvish wedding with this storm blowing in. Didn’t they want to have you two standing in a clearing in the forest? Don’t see how they can do it.”

“Elves are always married in the light of the full moon,” Kíli explains. “If you put off your ceremony for rain you’d have to wait another month. I think if I had to wait another day with these nerves I’d go mad, never mind four whole weeks.”

“Well, it’s definitely a full moon,” Bofur replies. “Somewhere up there.”

Kíli sighs and lifts a hand to run it through his hair until Fíli slaps it away.

“Stop that,” he says. “You’re going to mess up your braids, and mother is going to have my head if you don’t look as perfect as your She-Elf.” He too glances up at the sky, and claps Kíli on the back with a joking smile. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and they’ll get caught in the rain coming in. Mahal, but I’d love to see the Elvenking show up to your wedding with his pretty hair all mussed and mud on his robes. He’d never hear the end of it, not from three generations of Dwarves.”

Kíli tries to laugh at his brother’s joke, but finds that his throat is too tight. He lowers his gaze from the sky to the horizon, and as if on queue sees a host of tall, graceful beings appear over the crest of the hill, making their way towards Erebor. They carry lanterns that glow with a soft, blue-white light, and their voices are raised in whispering song that carries across the plain. Somewhere in the middle of that procession, Tauriel is veiled in silver lace, walking under a canopy of green silk, hidden from all eyes until she will come to stand before Kíli. His mouth goes dry.

A flash of lightning illuminates the landscape, throwing everything into sharp relief. Kíli mutters another choice phrase he learned from Thorin. This isn’t the kind of light he’d planned on having.

“You never know,” Bofur says, unfazed by Kíli’s language. “It’s coming in pretty fast, might blow over by the time we actually finish the ceremony.”

Kíli doesn’t respond. Fíli shakes his head, grabs his brother by the shoulders, and turns him forcibly back toward the passage into the mountain. “Come on then, lover boy,” he says, pushing his brother forward. “You’ve got to be down there before that procession gets in, and you just had to pick a chamber that’s part of the mines, didn’t you?”

“I swear it will make sense before the night’s over.” Before Fíli can drag him off the ledge, Kíli twists around to look at the sky one last time. A single boom of thunder rolls across the plain. He grimaces. This is not going as he planned at all. “At least, I hope it will.”


	2. Ceremony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Balin shakes his head and sighs. 'Why did we bother rehearsing,' he mutters to Thorin, 'if they weren’t going to listen anyway?'"

The sight of her sends shivers down Kíli’s spine and steals all the breath from his lungs.

Like the night in Laketown when he saw her through the veil of a fever dream, she is practically glowing. It turns the gray silk dress, painted to be reminiscent of birch trees, almost gold, turns her skin a warm, rosy hue and her auburn hair into a river of rippling copper, dotted with shimmering beads, and makes her eyes shine as she smiles down at him. He reaches for her hand, to reassure himself that this vision before him is real, and this time she interlaces her fingers with his.

Someone nudges his boot with their foot. “Are you planning to gape up at her like that all night,” Legolas asks, the barest hint of mockery in his voice, “or shall I get you a box?”

Kíli is prepared to make a snide reply of his own, but his mother beats him to it. “I warned you, Elfling,” she snaps, just loud enough for the wedding party to hear, without her voice carrying to the rest of the assembled crowd, “about making any more jokes about our height.”

Now it is Tauriel’s turn to nudge Legolas away, and he graces Kíli with one last good natured smirk before falling back to stand behind her, beside his father. She shakes her head and turns back to Kíli, her eyes twinkling with suppressed laughter. Balin clears his throat to get their attention, and then says to Kíli. “In your own time then, lad.”

He takes a breath and swallows to steady his voice, then looks up at his bride again. “Tauriel,” he says, taking her hands in both of his, “my sword and my bow are yours. I will defend you to my last breath.” The words of the ancient vows do not sound the same in the Common Speech, like they pass too quickly from his tongue, but he tries to convey the conviction and the depth of meaning they would have in Khuzdul in the way he gently squeezes her fingers. Satisfied, Balin turns and nods to Tauriel.

“Kíli,” she says, voice soft and lilting. “My sword and my bow are yours.” There is scattered snickering among some of the Dwarves, especially the other members of the company — Fíli actually laughs aloud until Thorin elbows him — but Tauriel continues undeterred. “I will defend you to my last breath.”

Kíli must hold back an embarrassed laugh himself, and he looks down at his feet until he can collect himself enough to look at Tauriel again and murmur quietly, “Those are not you lines.”

Her answering smile is alight with both mischief and love. “They are my promise anyway.”

He grins impishly back at her, and on a whim, replies in Khuzdul with a modified version of what should have been her answering vow. “ _Amràlimê_ , we are blessed to defend each other, to build our lives together, and I shall love you until the day I leave this world, and forever after.”

Balin shakes his head and sighs. “Why did we bother rehearsing,” he mutters to Thorin, “if they weren’t going to listen anyway?”

Apparently he was loud enough that Thranduil could hear, because the Elvenking adds, “This is what happens when you allow children to marry.”

Kíli turns to his uncle and Balin and tries to smile at them too, to show that he means no disrespect, but when he catches Thorin’s eye he sees that they have ignored Thranduil completely, he is just waiting for Kíli to determine what course they shall take now. A new wave of nerves washes over him. This is the part they have not been able to rehearse with Tauriel present. This is the part he will have only one chance to get right, or else he can fall back on calling the ring his bridal gift. He glances at Tauriel, sees her expectant and curious expression, turns back to the others, and nods.

“Put out the torches!” Thorin calls. Immediately, an excited buzz arises in the crowd as Dwarves begin to whisper to one another. _“What sort of gift requires darkness?” “Perhaps it’s straight from the forges, that would make quite a show.” “Maybe it glows like the Arkenstone.”_ One by one, the torches are extinguished, until only the Elvish lamps remain for light.

“Those too,” Thorin barks, and a few Elves hesitate to follow the order — one or two do, but most are unwilling be put in the position of being in the dark under the mountain. The idea even seems to shake Thranduil, and his eyes flash with outrage. “You would dare command my people?”

“It is a request.” Thorin’s expression gives nothing away, but there is an undertone to his words that suggests some history behind them. “One king to another.”

Thranduil says nothing, so Legolas raises a hand and says something in Elvish. Just before the lamps go out, Kíli catches his eye and mouths “Thank you.”

The chamber is plunged into total darkness, and silence. Kíli squeezes Tauriel’s fingers again, and waits. For a long, tense moment, there is nothing but the whisper of her breath, and the pounding of his own heart against his chest, and then…

Somewhere far above them, a cloud shifts, and a beam of silver moonlight hits the mirror at the mouth of the cave, reflecting it down to another mirror at the top of an airshaft, and from there to another at the roof of the cavern. The curved wall behind and above Kíli is suddenly illuminated, and the purpose of using an old diamond mine for the ceremony becomes clear. Thousands of glittering gems, too small to have been worth extracting in the days of Thrór, twinkle like stars in the night sky. There is a collective intake of breath at the sight; even the Dwarves, who may not understand the significance it holds for them, seem impressed by his work.

“Do you like it?” he whispers. His eyes have adjusted enough now to be able to make out her face, and see her eyes widen incredulously that he would even have to ask.

“Like it?” She seems torn between amazement and laughter. “Kíli, this is… it’s…”

“It’s less than you deserve, I know,” he says quickly. “But it’s the closest I could come to starlight down here.”

He half expects her to argue him, she usually does when he makes her out to be more than he is, like something out of a legend, but for once she doesn’t protest. She just looks down at him, and smiles, and says simply, “It’s beautiful.”

A new cloud blows in and covers the moon, and the light fades. Thorin strikes a fire starter and rekindles the nearest lamp, then passes it to Fíli to begin relighting the rest.

“Well done, lad,” Balin tells Kíli. “Alright, you may exchange your rings, and kiss your bride.”

Kíli fishes the ring from his pocket and, fumbling more than he’d like to admit, takes Tauriel’s extended hand. Although he’s tried to incorporate both Elven and Dwarvish design, it is clear as soon as he places it on her long, slender finger that there is more of the latter, and it seems brash and somewhat out of place — but so does the delicate band of woven gold that she gives to him. The same thought seems to have occurred to her, and she laughs before swooping down to kiss him — at the same time that he stretches up onto his toes thinking to... Well, he isn’t sure exactly what he means to do after that, he hasn’t made himself that much taller, but it’s just enough for her to grab his shoulders instead of his face, and knock him off balance, causing them both to fall over since he’s still holding her hands.

The rest of the hall looks on in a combination of shocked and mortified silence as they tumble to the ground, still laughing, still holding each other. Even Thorin breaks his stoic facade to pinch the bridge of his nose and mutter “Mahal help us,” as he looks down at his nephew, but Kíli doesn't hear. In that moment, all he cares about is Tauriel’s musical laughter, her arms wrapped around him, the soft strands of her hair brushing his face.

This, he thinks, as he pushes her coppery locks away so that he can finally kiss his wife (his wife; the word echoes in his head and makes his smile even wider), this is bliss.

#

The ceremony may have had a strong Elvish influence, but the feast that follows is entirely Dwarven. It goes on for hours — it is difficult to tell how many in the steady light of the underground halls — and becomes a truly riotous affair with toasts and songs breaking out one after (or sometimes over) another. At first the Elves keep mostly to themselves, looking concerned and somewhat repulsed by the raucous festivities and only picking at the magnificent spread of food, but the more wine is passed around the more they loosen ranks, and Balin has ensured that plenty of wine was delivered from Laketown.

Kíli pushes a glass toward Tauriel, who has had nothing resembling a celebratory drink all night. She smiles at him but doesn't touch it. “I want to remember tonight,” she says, just loud enough to be heard over the din of the party. “I do not want these memories dulled by drink, not even a little.”

Her words make him pause with his ale halfway to his lips; there is something in her tone that suggests that, while she is speaking the truth, it is not the whole truth. He has always had trouble with the circular talk of Elves, and it doesn’t help that his head is already spinning somewhat, but it has been doing that since Fíli helped him off the floor of the cavern. He doesn’t think it is the drink, just the vision of Tauriel sitting beside him, her loose hair flowing over her shoulders, her hand warm as she places it over his.

“You are staring again,” she says, to the profound amusement of every Dwarf within earshot — which is, very fortunately, only the original company at that moment. Dwalin especially has been having a good laugh at Kíli’s expense, and has recounted the story of the dinner in Rivendell and Kíli’s inability to distinguish Elf-maid from man no less than three times already. He tosses a dinner roll at the older Dwarf, who dodges it easily and makes to return the gesture with a sticky pastry, but before he can Fíli gets up onto the table between them, starting a rousing chorus of a favorite drinking song. The lyrics, when they become distinguishable, make Tauriel blush in a most attractive fashion, and Kíli has a sudden and irrational desire to stand up on the table himself, to shout at them all to leave so that he can be alone with her.

As if guessing his thoughts, Tauriel catches his eye, and in a single glance conveys perfectly what she still cannot bring herself to say aloud — at least, not in company. A question hesitating in her gaze, her green eyes flick briefly toward the nearest door, and he nods almost imperceptibly and grasps her hand under the table. They slip away as Fíli’s song reaches an echoing crescendo (and a particularly suggestive verse) and she leads him on a wild, free spirited chase through the empty halls of Erebor.

#

Daylight is streaming into the cavern when Kíli opens his eyes, not so harsh as being directly in the path of the winter sun, just warm and inviting. He sighs contentedly, his head nestled in Tauriel’s lap, enjoying the gentle touch of her fingers as she smoothes his hair back from his face.

“So you really do like it?” he asks. “Because it’s ours, this place. Thorin says they won’t mine it, not ever.”

“Never?” she asks in reply. “That seems a hard promise to keep.”

“Well, his exact words were ‘as long as one of us lives,’ but he may have forgotten that you’re immortal…” he trails off, and she chuckles at his joke.

“It is perfect. Far more so than jewels.” She runs her fingers through his hair again, and then looks up at the source of the reflected light. “I wonder if it is enough to encourage plants to grow.”

Kíli shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “But we can try. Anything you want, _Amrâlimê_.”

“You cannot see it?”

He closes his eyes, trying to picture the cavern flushed with grass and flowers like a meadow, and though the idea makes him laugh, he loves that she loves it. “No,” he admits. “I understand metal and stone, but growing things… you’ll have to teach me that.”

“I will do my best. We could bring in mosses from the forest, see if they will take. Perhaps some climbing ivys.” She leans over and kisses him softly, and her voice takes on an etherial, almost conspiratorial tone. “Can you see it better now, _A'maelamin_? Something soft underfoot… a little Elfling playing in the light…”

His heart skips a beat. This is the first they have ever talked of children. He smiles to himself. “Of course,” he says. “One day.” And then, trying not to sound too hopeful, he adds, “Maybe… one day soon.”

He means that they will talk about it soon, and she makes a soft, agreeable noise before replying, “Maybe sooner than you think.”

He opens his eyes, sees her bright, knowing smile, and sits up so fast that he forgets she is leaning over him, and knocks his forehead against hers. “Ow! Sorry! Wait, Tauriel, do you mean to say that— that you’re…”

She does not answer him with words, only settles him in front of her again and places his hands against her stomach. A faint movement flutters under his palm once, twice… He looks up at his wife, unable to find words in Westron or Khuzdul to express the emotions coursing through him, emotions he has never even thought to name until this moment; perhaps they exist in Elvish, but he does not know them.

Finally, he settles on the one word that he knows she will always understand to mean all that he wishes to say. “ _Amrâlimê_ ,” he whispers, before pressing his lips against hers and wrapping his arms around her in a fierce, passionate embrace. “ _Amrâlimê_.”


End file.
